


desperate the calls came

by tosca1390



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-25
Updated: 2011-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-26 13:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zangetsu has more patience than Ichigo. He will wait as long as he needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	desperate the calls came

**Author's Note:**

> Set post-342. Because the swords are fierce and I love them, I've kind of decided they can come back if they want to. Haters to the left to the left.

*

Zangetsu waits.

Power lost does not just disappear. He knows, as he has always known, that Ichigo will overcome and regain the powers he so rightfully deserves. When the time comes, he will take Zangetsu in hand once more and take on the mantle awaiting him in the world of the spirits. There is a time and a place for all of it, though. Ichigo is not there yet, for all the power he has successfully wielded in the recent past.

So, time passes, and Zangetsu waits.

He cannot linger in the World of the Living, nor does he want to. The spirits Ichigo cannot see haunt him instead; they call out for a salvation he cannot give them without Ichigo’s hand behind him. He remains only briefly, hovering over Ichigo before he retreats to the world of spirits and swords, to wait.

Zangetsu has more patience than Ichigo. He will wait as long as he needs.

*

Soul Society is quiet and still much of the time, in a way Zangetsu has never seen before. He has never spent enough time there without the heat and pace of battle to learn the rhythm of the world.

He is a Zanpakuto without a master, but his master is not dead; therefore, he does not go rogue, and he does not make waves. Indeed, he is almost never noticed at all. Perhaps the Shinigami have more to worry over, or perhaps they do not notice who he is. He does not mind either way.

Sometimes, other Zanpakuto appear and move within Soul Society’s walls. Now that they are free to move from sword to self, they do so, some more than others. They hover at their masters’ sides or engaging them in practice battles. It is rare when they approach him, or take note of him. He imagines they are intimidated, or scared; the blades know his power, after all, and the power Ichigo has yet to release. Sometimes, it is hard for him to comprehend the power that will flow through him eventually, the magnitude of strength he will have to have to keep Ichigo steady.

That is in the future, distant or not. For now, he tucks into the shadows of Soul Society, and waits.

The compounds are fully rebuilt, the training recommenced. It feels as if things have settled back into some normalcy, even with the reminder of Aizen in the dungeons, sealed away for who knows how long. But the scars of the Zanpakuto Incursion and the Winter War lay invisibly over each Shinigami. He can see them, silvery webs in every moment and press of blade and every flash of Kido. For some, they lay thicker than others. They move through their scars in every battle, fighting against the past towards a stronger future.

Zangetsu likes to watch one, in particular.

*

He stands perched in the trees, always lush and green, and watches as the thirteenth division duels each other in practice rounds.

Rukia has her lieutenant’s badge now, a long time coming. How they could have ignored the magnitude of her spiritual energy for so long, he does not understand. But Soul Society is strange to him, as it is to Ichigo. He knows the ways of power and blades, but bureaucratic control and politics is foreign. He can be content now, to see her thriving, sharp with her katana as she is with her Kido.

There is something in him that wishes Ichigo could see her now, to calm the storm certainly raging in his inner world. Zangetsu knows how dark and turbulent Ichigo can be. She lessened the rain, after all. Zangetsu will always remember her for that.

As he watches them all, standing still and straight on the branch, a cool wind flutters through the dark ragged sleeves of his robes, pinpricks of ice curling along the line of his throat. He doesn’t turn his head, as much as he would like to. There’s a thickness in the air that he finds it hard to breathe through, but it is familiar in its headiness.

“I know you,” she says softly and evenly from the branch next to him.

At last, Zangetsu slants his gaze over to the pale blue-white woman at his side. The light in the air gathers to her, almost blinding in her cold beauty. She is all silent cold fire where he is dark and loud in his movements. She could almost be a mirror image of his very self, with the long fall of pale hair across her brow. Recognition curls his fingers.

He bows his head in greeting, hair cresting across the line of his throat. “And I, you,” he says, voice low.

Shirayuki smiles, the bow of her mouth slight. “You are without your master.”

“I wait for him. He will call me when I am needed,” he says.

“They always do,” she murmurs, her small pale hand falling to the hilt of her sword. Her icy-blue gaze falls to Rukia, far below them in the courtyard. “She is unsettled still.”

“She seems to be coming into her own.”

“She has always been,” she retorts, suddenly sharp. He can see the intertwining of her and her master now, the twitch of her fingers as Rukia sails through the air, a practice katana lashing out behind her.

“Of course,” he murmurs after a moment. “We have always known.”

Shirayuki hums, a soft sound that lightens the weight of his missing master from his shoulders. “Ichigo Kurosaki was quite the opponent. Do you know what he said to me?”

“You are strong because you are hers, and vice versa,” he says. Of course he knows; he felt the sharp clang and scraping of her blade against him, the beat and heat of her power thrumming through Ichigo’s bones and into him.

“He understands much, for only a substitute,” she murmurs.

Anger licks at his insides, pressing into the measured lines of his face and body. “He is more than a Substitute. He has wielded the final Getsuga Tenshō. He has much more ahead of him,” he says fiercely, voice rough as the words grit out from the back of his throat.

A cool breeze fills the space between them, the leaves rustling distantly around them. She folds her hands delicately in front of her. Her skin is nearly as pale as her kimono. He knuckles his fingers against the shifting folds of his robes, the hilt of his sword rubbing at his wrist. Below them, there is shouting and laughter, the dull thud of wooden katanas against one another. It is in these moments, when he watches the Shinigami and their swords, that he misses the easy constancy of Ichigo, the partnership there. For all his wildness and his obstinacy, Ichigo is a part of him, just as he is a part of Ichigo. Even lost, Zangetsu feels it.

“I apologize,” she murmurs at last, an odd sort of sadness weighing on her words. “Ichigo Kurosaki is much more than a substitute. I know that.”

He glances at her through the long fall of his bangs across his face. Even through the implacable façade, there is a loss in her eyes that he recognizes from the web of silvery scars that surround Rukia and haunt her every step. Her Zanpakutu carries it too.

“They will find their way back to each other,” she says at last, her fingers curling into the folds of her kimono. “It is the way of things, after all.”

“First he must find his way back to me,” he says quietly.

“The two will hopefully not be far apart in time,” she murmurs. “I always enjoyed our battles together.”

“As did I,” he says, glancing over at her.

Pale hair falls against her cheek as she tilts her head and smiles. “Though I think you are more measured than your master.”

A low sound of agreement rumbles from his throat. He looks away and back down to the courtyard. Dust settles from the practice duels; only Rukia is there now, her hand still fixed to the hilt of her katana. The air vibrates with pressure and need, her determination resonating through him.

“She needs me,” Shirayuki murmurs, moving off of the branch.

He catches her by the wrist, her skin like ice under his fingertips. “We do, as well,” he says, the words even and firm in the soft air.

She smiles, sliding her fingertips across his. “I hope we meet again soon, Zangetsu. In any form.”

Then she is gone, and he is left with just the taste of ice on his tongue. He hears her below, appearing at Rukia’s side just as he wishes he could appear at Ichigo’s.

Zangetsu allows himself a small smile before he shifts, and disappears to find another area of Soul Society to wait in. He has waited this long; he can wait a little longer.

*


End file.
